


Definition: Real Boy?

by CookieCatSU



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Also: Della - Doesn't Know How to Talk to People - Duck, Alternative Title: Boyd the Real Boy, Featuring Donald the Super Dad, Fenton: Supportive Work Buddy, Gen, Gyro's a Dad, He's also Emotionally Constipated, Hurt/Comfort, Set after Astro Boyd, That's a state of being, and Akita - who's still a flaming pile of garbage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:54:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24822658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CookieCatSU/pseuds/CookieCatSU
Summary: Gyro and Co. define the undefinable. Or; Gyro struggles to determine what Boyd means to him, before eventually settling on the obvious.
Relationships: B.O.Y.D. (Disney: DuckTales) & Gyro Gearloose, Fenton Crackshell-Cabrera & Gyro Gearloose
Comments: 52
Kudos: 114





	1. Definition: Real Boy?

**Author's Note:**

> This is a 3-parter, each from a different character's perspective. This one is Gyro. Next up is Boyd.

B.O.Y.D. was hard to define.

That is to say, Gyro had a hard time determining how he felt about the… child, robot, automaton. That was part of the problem, of course, picking a label to categorize, identify, what he… it… was. It…. He, was not organic, did not have a brain, but it's programming was that of a functioning, organic human. He spoke like a little boy, however stilted, algorithmic, and he looked like a boy, and if you hugged him, and ignored how heavy and dense he was… he felt like a boy.

Sometimes he turns his eyes on him, those soft yellow eyes, and clamors into his lap, and he just asks,

"How about a bedtime story, Dr. Gearloose?" And he's always so excited, about the simplest things, arms slung around his lanky middle.

And tired as he is, Gyro can't say no.

That's part of the problem.

It's not a question of feelings. At least, it shouldn't be. But sometimes, B.O.Y.D. looks at him with that questioning look, that look that asked if he was going to leave him, and he can't stop the burst of affection he feels for the little pile of bolts.

He shouldn't feel that way. He's a scientist. A very intelligent one at that. He viewed everything objectively. Logically.

This should be no different.

It is though. It always was.

Sometimes it's so complicated. He can't decide if B.O.Y.D. is a menace, or just a boy, or some machine he's always stuck fixing messes behind (like all of his machines, his creations… his, ugh!).

* * *

Gyro always added a personal touch to his creations. When he was younger, he was certain he wasn't just making advancements, machines. He was making a legacy.

He was a scientist, yes, but his creations, his projects, were more than that. They'd been like children, almost.

He closes the panel behind 2-B.O.'s head, watches as he slowly comes online. There's a pulse, of nerves and fear and elation. He jumps back, as the bot, the boy, sits up, looking left than right. Catching his bearings.

He fumbles with his clipboard, pushing his hair from his face.

"Oh good! You're awake"

The robot blinks at Gyro, his creator, owlishly, "Where am I? Who am I? Who are you?"

Looking back on it, that's where he made his first mistake. He fell in love with him, it, near instantly. So fond of it. The little boy he'd built with his own two hands. Whom he'd built, to be caring, loving, understanding.

To fill the void.

It never occurred to him to check, to see if there were some mistake, some back door. Some way it could be sabotaged. It should have, because he's a scientist, and he's logical, to a fault.

None of that happens. He's simply overcome with excitement. He smiles, and shouts,

"Welcome to the world, 2-B.O.!" Because it seemed most appropriate at the time.

And the child smiles, and reaches up. Batting at the curly swath of feathers atop his head, like a cat with a toy. It's startlingly unexpected.

Unbelievably endearing.

2-B.O. giggles.

"You're fluffy" He says, and it's a fact.

Gyro Gearloose smiles fondly.

"And you're delightful"

* * *

Boyd's breathing has slowed, so sluggish Gyro wonders if his systems have suddenly shut down. But then he shifts atop the scientist's chest, and he's assured that isn't the case. He wouldn't be able to move, if it were. His carbon fiber limbs were too heavy to manipulate without the help of the quantum processor, nestled in his chest.

He huffs, as Gyro gently repositions him, and sits up.

"I'm sleepy, Dr. Gearloose" He mumbles, so faint, so soft. A murmuring little complaint. He's talking into his vest, to the point that Gyro can hardly hear him at all.

He's being overdramatic.

The scientist rolls his eyes, as he stands up. He carefully cradles the little boy in the crook of his arm, walking away from his cluttered living room.

"You'd already be in bed by now, if you hadn't fallen asleep on me" He hisses sarcastically, but it lacks any real bite.

He steps into the kitchen, pulling down a baby blue mug brazen with silly cartoon heroes.

"Besides, you're an android. You don't need to sleep"

The boy just hums, as if he can't hear Gyro. He knows the boy can, of course (he has supernatural hearing, for goodness sake, and the memory capacity of 100 recording devices, of course he heard), but he doesn't make a fuss about it.

"You're fluffy" Boyd says instead, as if it's some sort of revelation.

It's disturbingly reminiscent of old times. Of nostalgia riddled memories, of late nights spent tinkering in the lab. Of clinging hugs and silly attachments. Of fuzzy conversations that used to always leave him grinning like a fool.

_"Hello, Creator Doctor Gearloose! Are you going to teach me more about physics today?" The child had exclaimed one evening, seated atop his work bench, eyes bright with anticipation._

_That child always loved to learn. He was a knowledge sponge, just as eager as Gyro was, once upon a time._

_Gyro pulled up a stool, sitting down beside his workbench with a thoughtful nod, and a faint smile._

_"Hmmm. Yes, I think so. How does a lesson in quantum mechanics sound?"_

_2-B.O. beams up at him._

Gyro shakes himself from his reverie. Looks down, at the sound of a little snore.

Boyd snuggles into the crook of his arm, so affectionate it's sickening.

Gyro mentally rolls his eyes, but he doesn't complain (he can't).

Instead, he shifts him slightly in his grip, so he's easier to hold. Cooing softly into the feathers atop his head, when he starts to fuss (It's not an action he'd usually perform, so infantile, so vulnerable, but he makes an exception). There's no one to see. No one to notice.

* * *

He rises to his full height, overcome with a sudden, unbearable rage. At the thought that someone would hurt, abuse, his creation. His feathers bristle, and his hands shake.

The woman's face is disgusted, horrified, as if looking upon some _thing_ , and Boyd is cowering and apologizing, scrambling away.

He steps between them, and she pauses, and her eyes widen.

"You did, what?! You said _what_ to him?..." His expression is perfectly dissatisfied, bringing all of the disdain he's spent years cultivating.

It's a different kind of disdain, of course, than the one he levels at Cabrera when he fumbles and spills noxious, steel eating liquids all over the floor. It's different from the moody irritation he snaps out with when he's been interrupted, and he's just moments from perfectly soutering a new wire to Lil Bulb's frayed mainframe interface. Different, than the stickly annoyance he adopts, when one of those bratty twerp triplets sneaks into _his_ lab, as a way to protect himself, as a level of distance.

No, this is hotter. More indignant. Self righteous.

_Hateful._

He hates this. More than he hates retesting, and failed projects and bumbling interns.

"I know he means no harm… but he's a danger. He-he's a menace!" She squares her shoulders, accusatory, "He nearly killed my son"

"It was an accident, I'm sorry. He fell in and I had to retrieve him"

"You pushed him in!"

"Enough!" He turns to Boyd, "We're going home now"

He scoops the child into his arms, turns, and walks out.

* * *

Somehow the little boy has managed to worm his way back into his heart. His steel encased heart, the one he'd pushed aside years ago. The one that shriveled, and died, along with his naivete. Or so he thought.

He's just so sweet. Impossibly so, considering all he's been through.

He hasn't changed. He's the same little boy he always was. Still a definitely real boy, regardless of his inner workings.

Gyro is not the same. He knows this.

He's still struggling to work through, and work past, nearly 20 years of hatred, born of that single betrayal. Struggling to get past the destruction of the city. Struggling to get past the defamation of his prototype, his child. Struggling. Still struggling.

He's bitter, tainted. Snapping and angry. No longer the kind, gentle man he used to be, so jaded by misfortune.

He's not good like he used to be. And he's not sure he's good enough for Boyd, anymore.

* * *

The boat is small within the indoor pool, it's own miniature ocean, with the way it crashes and undulates, the boat bobbing with it. Gyro pads silently across white tile, through the ambience. Moonlight from the sunroof turns everything a faint blue hue, makes the water sparkle like a jewel, ethereal, unnaturally picturesque just like everything else in this godforsaken mansion.

It's quiet. Gyro heaves himself up to the edge of the pool's surface, standing at the lip of the ledge.

"Can we talk?" He calls. He waits.

There's some shuffling. A few items crashing, falling. A muffled shout. Then, the door to the house boat's cabin slams open, and Donald stumbles out.

He's still in his pajamas, nightcap and all, pale blue and ruffled. The duck wipes at his eyes, his expression saying everything that need be said.

_Why'd you wake me?_ And, _what are you doing here?_ Are clear as crystal.

He stares at Gyro dubiously from over the edge of the boat, for several moments. The man stands impatiently at the ledge, nearly a dozen feet below him.

"I guess" He says finally, "What about?"

"Throw the rope ladder down, will ya? I'd rather talk inside. You know, where I don't have to scream every time I want to be heard" Gyro replies, somewhat waspish.

Donald rolls his eyes, but extends the ladder as asked.

The boat is the same as he remembers. Crammed and cluttered. He still struggles to navigate the room without knocking random objects over. His shoulder brushes a portrait tacked to the wall, of an exuberant little duckling that could have been Hubert or Flooie or the blue one. Or none, for that matter.

Gyro sits at the diminutive table near the back. The only table, actually. His too long legs brush against the bottom of it.

He waits for Donald to sit as well, but he doesn't. Instead, he remains in the kitchen section of the boat, doing lord knows what while behind him.

"What was it you wanted to talk about, Gyro?"

Gyro's not surprised by the clipped tone. Della was still furious with him about the moon, so of course Donald was angry too.

As long as Gyro had known them, Donald and Della had always been a tag team. If one was mad at you, the other would be mad at you too, simply by principle. The wrath of one sibling always incurred the wrath of the other, sometimes ten fold, because if you messed with one, you messed with all.

They were fiercely protective of each other. Try as he might, not to, Gyro had noticed that that protectiveness increased significantly since Della returned from the moon, at least on Donald's end.

He blinks owlishly in the half dark. He isn't entirely sure exactly what he wants to say.

"It's about this _kid_ thing…" Gyro says, grimacing, "How do you do it?"

Donald stares at him, for several moments too long. Gyro's beginning to become fidgety, impatient, by the time Donald finally breaks out of his stupor. He bursts into laughter, wheezy and loud.

"What? What are you talking about?" He keeps laughing. As if Gyro's joking. As if he's being ridiculous.

He's not joking, and he didn't think it was funny.

The chicken slams his hand against the table, already up on his feet, grumbling and agitated.

Silence falls over the boat, the only noise that of water just beyond the cabin walls. Donald, having walked over to the table at some earlier point, glares all squinty at him. He looks particularly tired, just as annoyed as Gyro, and it occurs to the scientist that it's past 2 am at this point.

It's late. He sighs, dragging his hand across his face.

"Look, I'm sacrificing a lot just to ask this, okay?" Like his pride, for example, "So don't make it any harder than it needs to be"

He turns, flushed and frustrated. Donald still looks unimpressed.

"I'm struggling. Throw me a bone"

Donald Duck stays his laughter.

"Alright… alright. I do have plenty of advice. I am an expert"

* * *

"Is he a robot? A person?" It's perfectly harmless and innocent, especially coming from Webbigail of all people. She's simply curious. There is no hatred in her eyes, no fear.

She doesn't see a killer machine. Doesn't see the burning buildings and flesh melting lasers and inhuman, dilating eyes red as blood. All she sees is a child, who's just a little different.

A child, just like her.

Gyro's happy she's still so innocent. He's happy there's now some truth to her assessments.

"Yes" He pauses, "to both"

He twirls in his seat, and focuses back in on his work.

* * *

He feels like he might explode. There's a nervous energy, buzzing beneath his feathers, that has him scurrying all over the lab like some rat, gathering any supplies he could possibly need, stuffing his pack.

Grabbing and stumbling, and trying to make some sense of the mess of metal scraps and torn apart machines spread across the lab.

He brushes his fingers over fly drone prototypes and his discarded ray gun, and… where was that drive?!

"Gyro? Where are you going, sir?" None other than Fenton's voice pipes up. Because of course it's obvious he's leaving the lab. It's obvious he's in a frenzy, of sorts.

He wonders, for a moment, when they'd become well acquainted enough to be on a first name basis. As he recalled, he'd told Cabrera he could call him a number of things: Sir, Gearloose, maybe Co-worker, and most preferably Dr. Gearloose. He certainly never remembers sanctioning the use of his first name.

That'd be too personal, too sentimental- and entirely counterintuitive- since Gyro has been working for ages to cut out anything that could even be deemed as similar. Especially in his place of work.

He pauses, before carefully placing Lil Bulb in his bag. Then he begins sorting through his blueprints, and determining what items from his desk he'd need and what should be left behind (anything dangerous, anything even possibly unstable). So basically everything.

When he turns back to Cabrera he's half distracted, attention elsewhere, and he's subsequently decided that there's no point in bringing up the transgression in relation to his name. Not at this point in time.

Instead, he scoffs, and allows some of his usual annoyance to wash over him. If he snaps, he blames how harried he currently is, "If you really must know, Fenton, I have some rather important business I must attend to. I'll be gone a few hours. I trust the place won't fall apart in my absence, yes?"

"Of course not. I have it under control" His brow furrows, "It's just… you still haven't answered my question"

He forgets, sometimes, how smart Cabrera is.

He growls. Where was that darn drive?

"I… I need to talk to someone. Time is limited, in regards to my ability to do so" Huh. His eyes glance over a few miniaturized armor packs. That should come with as well. He stuffs them into his bag, as a precautionary measure, and then slings the bag over his shoulders, "So butt out, Crackshell"

Something about the abrasiveness of Gyro's tone seems to make Cabrera pause. Or perhaps it's the desperation, the raised hackles, the silent _drop it, please_ , which even Gyro can't realistically ignore.

Either way, it gets him off the scientist's back. He rubs the back of his neck, looking somehow even more concerned, but then he concedes,

"Well… okay. I get that it's not really any of my business" He's so annoyingly dubious. As if Gyro weren't a full grown adult who could care for himself. He hums, "Just know- If you need me, I'll be here"

Gyro's expression softens, somewhat. The downturn of his beak becoming ever so fainter, more of a dubious line.

He pauses, ever so briefly, in his search.

"I know"

It really is comforting. Very comforting. It shouldn't be, but it is.

It's good to know that he has a partner to watch over the lab. Better, to know that when he returns from this whole _ordeal_ , he won't return to empty darkness.

That gets old, he must admit.

* * *

"He's in here" The guard points toward the end of a long hall, sequestered in darkness. There's a single door, with a tiny window, and a complex padlock that would take days to crack, if one were to try to get in or _out,_ without permission.

"Hey, you've got a visitor!"

The prison cell is satisfyingly small, so much like a bird cage, bare and cube like. Gyro takes immense pleasure, in being on the other side of the bars, free to go as he pleased.

He's sure it's eating at the other doctor, if the hunched set of his shoulders are any indication.

"Akita"

The one who destroyed everything, then up and disappeared, leaving his apprentice to suffer with the aftermath.

"Intern" He smiles, sharp and satisfied, as if they're friends, "Big surprise, seeing you here. You've come to visit me?"

"I just had to see for myself. Scientific Genius, Doctor Akita, trapped in a dinky little jail cell. I mean, who would have thought it possible?"

"They think they can hold me. They can not"

"You better hope to the heavens that they can" Gyro exclaims, "Because I can assure you, I won't hesitate to get rid of you myself, if you ever get out of here"

He was a menace. A menace that could not be allowed to wander free. A menace who deserved to be locked away.

A menace who'd never be allowed near Boyd again.

"You've changed" He had. He was bitter, more likely to snap back, less trusting, and having coalesced into a husk with thick prickly barbs, after Akita's betrayal, "But you still won't follow through on that promise"

_You're still weak. At your core, you're still soft. Still that bumbling, silly intern._

"Wanna bet?"

Akita grins. Seated up on the ledge tapering into the wall, legs dangling, his head leant up in his palm. Careless, in the way he holds himself, and the way he looks at Gyro.

"How's the machine? Hasn't turned on you, yet?"

"Don't… don't you talk about him. You don't get to talk about 2-BO"

Akita ignores him.

"I find it fascinating, how you've always seen it through rose tinted glasses. You can't see it for what it is. A weapon" Dr. Akita shakes his head, "You were always blinded, by your expectations"

The words rattle in his head, uttered more than a decade ago.

_It was always a weakness of yours_ , Dr. Akita had said once. _The way you get attached._

"I wasn't the blind one. You made him something he's not. You _hurt_ him, and the only reason I'm even here is to make sure you rot for it"

Dr. Gearloose was not a man of virtue, not truly. He was not perfect, was not forgiving. He wanted some sort of vengeance. Some retribution, for what Akita had done to them.

He wanted some measure of revenge, for what this monster had snatched from him.

Unfortunately, due to the prison bars between them, this was as close as he'd get.

"He's always been a weapon. You've always been a fool. A match set"

He's trying to get a rise out of him. That much is clear. And it's working.

Gyro growls. Akita smiles at him, that same smile he'd leveled his way as Boyd hurtled toward his old intern, weapons at the ready, prepared to shred and pummel and kill.

Satisfied. Hungry.

Trying to burrow under his skin. Trying to make him angry, trying to get him agitated.

Gyro refuses to give him the satisfaction.

He's already got what he came for.

"Bye, old man" He brushes off his pants, throws his bag back on, and turns to leave.

Akita watches after him, smile having fallen off his face. He scrambles, then, to pick up the piece of paper left behind just outside his cell, before the guard can come and snatch it back up.

He unfolds the crumbled blue sticky note. Glancing over it:

_"I'm taking over your lab, dear Akita, seeing as you won't be needing it. I'll probably do some remodeling as well, throw out all your old junk…. The incinerator hasn't seen nearly enough use in the last few years. Anyway, the scientific community truly appreciates your contribution"_

_~ Your 'idiot' intern,_

_Dr. Gearloose._

Dr. Akita crumbles the paper back up, and chucks it across the room, howling with rage.

* * *

It's evening, slowly fading into dusk. Boyd sits in Gyro's lap, pushing buttons on a bright, led screen.

Gyro had gotten him a tablet, per Donald's advice. Evidently, they helped children to learn, to reach out, and _stay out of trouble_ , as the McDuck nephew put it. Gyro could only imagine what that part entailed, considering the three little monsters (Gyro uses that term affectionately, at least as much as it could be) he cared for.

"Where were you today, Dr. Gearloose?" Boyd pipes up, suddenly pausing in whatever technicolor game he was playing.

"Hmm?" Gyro hums absently, still running his fingers through the feathers atop the boy's head, before the question finally registers, "Oh, I was at the lab, of course"

"I mean between the hours of 2 and 4. You left. I know because I went to visit you. Dr. Cabrera just told me you stepped out" The pinch of his brow said he didn't believe.

Gearloose never just left the lab, after all. Not without prior knowledge, and an in depth explanation, and usually a great deal of hesitation. The lab was his life.

"I did. I went to talk to an old friend" Gyro says, gentle. Half lie. Half truth.

He and Akita were friends once. He saw him as a mentor, someone to look up to, and early on Akita'd been jovial, understanding.

He'd been the first one to listen to Gyro. The first one truly interested in what he had to say.

The first one to hear of his vision and say, oh, that's fascinating.

_A robot protector? That is very intriguing. Tell me more_.

Now, Gyro sees it as the farce it always was.

Boyd looks up at him, gaze laced with interest now. He grabs on to Gyro's hand, which had moved to gesticulate as he spoke, grasping onto it for the sake of the additional contact. Gyro can see the little gears in his head turning, whirring, as he thinks over the answer.

"Do I know this person? Was it a pleasant experience?"

Gyro squeezes the little hand in his grip. There's the briefest moment of hot, venomous anger, but he swallows it down. Continues in that soft voice. The closest he can get to the tone he used to adopt 20 years ago, when Boyd had just been born and Gyro was still fresh faced and stupid.

Fresh faced and _happy_.

They were both so _happy_.

"Absolutely" He sucks in a faint breath, "I aired out some equally old grievances, and now I feel much better. And yes, you do"

"I did not know you felt bad. Are you okay?"

Is he?

He wonders, if they can be happy now. Maybe not that happy, not like before (Boyd has terrible, thrashing terrors some nights, unexplained by programming, but still real, tangible and heart wrenching; and Gyro can't help but look at every face and see possible traitors, any moment disasters. Sometimes, he can't look at his boy and not see destroyed streets, burning buildings, cracked glass, and Boyd at the center of it).

But maybe, they can still be happy. _New_ happy. _Different_ happy.

_Are you okay?_

Boyd's still looking up at him, waiting for his answer with bated breath.

"I think so" He says, after a long moment, staring at the weight at his side. At his boy.

_Certainly better than I've been in awhile._


	2. Evaluation: Happiness?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boyd defines what the term happiness means for him. He also observes, brainstorms and possibly worries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from Boyd's perspective as promised. Next up is everyone's lovable goofball, Fenton.

Happiness. How do you evaluate the term?

Once, Boyd would have answered that easily. Happiness was listening to Dr. Gearloose explain complex scientific theories while he worked, so patiently kind with him. Happiness was settling into the covers as Gyro tucked him in, though he had no need for sleep, or woolen blankets. Happiness was completing a field test under Dr. Gearloose's watchful eye, to be rewarded with a wide smile, bursting with triumphant pride.

Dr. Gearloose doesn't smile like that anymore.

Boyd used to know Dr. Gearloose was happy, because he'd smile. Happiness was a shout, a cry of success. Happiness was a laugh, loud and airy and satisfied. Not so abrasive, like it is now, barking and hysterical.

Now, he's not certain.

He has a dilemma of sorts to consider.

That is to say, he's wondering about Dr. Gearloose. He's _worried?_ about Dr. Gearloose. Yes, worried. That is the correct label for the sensation he's experiencing. Worry.

Boyd is worried about Dr. Gearloose. He seems happy, but different. He doesn't smile like he used to. He does, smile, but it's different. Most of his expressions are: pinched, brows drawn together, irritable.

He seems sad. Agitated.

He's not patient like he used to be, not as kind and gentle.

Sometimes he gets so frustrated, he'll throw everything off his desk, ranting and raving, gesticulating and stalking around the lab, until he's panting and heaving, leant up against the wall.

That never happened, before.

Boyd wonders what changed. He shifts through his data banks, through the variables that could have been altered in the time they'd been apart.

Boyd can identify only one.

"Dr. Gearloose…" He pauses, watches the way his creator hunches over his desk, mumbling just below his breath. "Can I ask you something?"

The inventor huffs a bit, distracted, annoyed by the interruption.

"I suppose you can, your voice modulator should allow for it. The fact that you're speaking right now indicates it's still functional - that is to say, I'm listening" He turns, an almost apologetic smile plastered across his face, as he heaves a calming sigh.

"What is it?"

"Well, it's more of a statement, needing your confirmation" He pauses, before stating matter of factly, "I'm the reason you're unhappy"

He waits for Dr. Gearloose's answer, quiet and resigned. He's completely prepared to hear the doctor's avid agreement on the subject: that, yes, you're the cause.

Instead there's a beat of silence. The only sound the shifting of pencils on the scientist's desk. Then Dr. Gearloose is kneeling before him, squinting dubiously at Boyd. Looking rather put out, if the upward pull of his beak is any indication.

"Do I need to check your specs?" He asks, tone irritable, effusively agitated, "because I know I made you smarter than this"

He taps him on the forehead, with a metallic sounding clunk. Boyd's head tilts, as he gazes up at his creator.

He appears frustrated, his other hand flying upward in a gesture of pure annoyance. No. It's concern.

Dr. Gearloose is concerned.

"Now where **is** this coming from?" He asks, eyebrow arching. As if asking a young toddler why they thought they should flush the keys down the toilet. As if he were being ridiculous.

Unfounded. Boyd's hands clench, because it's not. It's not unfounded.

He's not acting out, not lashing out, as he'd learned other children were prone to do (he watched a young beagle at a Junior Woodchuck meeting, throw a cooler across the campsite). This was not that. That situation was not this one.

Boyd was concerned. He was allowed to be so.

"You were happy, the last time I saw you" Boyd says, fingertips shaking, ever so slightly, voice warbling, "Then I reentered your life, and now you're not. It's a logical conclusion"

It makes sense. Boyd clings to it, to one of the few things that makes sense, now, that he can understand, now.

"Maybe, but you… you didn't have all the information when you made it"

Dr. Gearloose looks away.

"It's been twenty years, Boyd. People change in twenty years. The catalyst might have been related- but I promise, it wasn't your fault"

"And I'm not unhappy"

Boyd didn't believe him.

His eyes are distant, wistful, even as he smiles at Boyd. It's the first time Boyd's certain Dr. Gearloose is lying to him.

Dr. Gearloose never lied before.

The only question now is what to do about it.

What's his next course of action?

* * *

Boyd has a plan. It's a simple plan.

Operation: make Dr. Gearloose happy.

Boyd lay splayed out just behind Dr. Gearloose's desk, chin propped up in one hand and crayon clutched in the other. legs kicking back and forth, whistling, as he colored.

The lab was rather chaotic this morning. There'd been the usual noises, pattering feet and hushed conversations and loud declarations of genius. There'd also been a couple little explosions, which Boyd had the pleasure of watching, oh, and helping to put out.

Dr. Cabrera and Dr. Gearloose stand side by side now, off near the corner, in front of a large blackboard covered in equations. Dr. Gearloose cranes his neck downward to talk to Cabrera, both discussing a rather complicated theory on thermal mechanics.

"Do you think we can-" Cabrera inclines his head.

Dr. Gearloose nods sharply. "We better. The Melting Pot-Bot won't function unless we-"

"-I recently read an article suggesting that electrical based heat generation may be-"

"Explain that. Surely nuclear fission is more effective"

Dr. Cabrera shakes his head with a laugh, "Not necessarily!"

Their conversation cuts in and out. Boyd can hear the smile in their voices, though they're halfway across the lab.

Boyd's usually left to his own devices while they work, which, while not always ideal, luckily gives him quite a lot of time to work on his newest project.

He stands up, satisfied with the finished product clasped in his hands. It's perfect.

"Dr. Gearloose!" He calls, brandishing his drawing, "Look what I made!"

Dr. Gearloose turns at the sound of Boyd's call. He walks over to the boy

"What is it- oh" He pauses abruptly, as he catches sight of the piece of paper bestowed before him, as well as the little boy, and the excited grin spread wide across his face.

It's a card. It's garish, jaunty, with stark, saturated colors and clashing, bright hues. It's also messy. Incredibly messy, but what it lacks in professionalism, it makes up for in pure, candid affection. A tall figure, clearly Gyro, is depicted, holding the hand of a little blue bird that was absolutely Boyd.

It's a mess. A beautiful little mess.

Just like _him_ : just like _them_.

Dr. Gearloose smiles softly. Warmly.

"Oh, and that's Fenton, isn't it?" He points at the brown oval with legs.

Boyd nods eagerly.

"What a spitting image. You've truly captured his essence" The scientist's smile is faintly smug.

Boyd smiles happily, in turn.

Success!

Step 1 complete.

* * *

It's a couple of days later. Boyd sits atop the ironing board in Dr. Gearloose's little apartment, which sat attached to the wall, wedged right beside the kitchen and right before the living room. His legs dangle, as he whistles a faint tune, accompanied by the faint whistling of the tea kettle.

He'd decided he'd make tea for himself and Gyro. Warm drinks brought comfort, and he knew the doctor, after a couple, stressful days at the lab, would need some comfort.

Plus, he was determined to be thoughtful. Dr. Geaeloose was getting better at hiding it, but Boyd could tell he was still not quite happy. Perhaps not unhappy, but not happy either. He's determined to fix that as best he can.

When Gyro steps through the apartment door, Boyd's already walking over with a coffee mug in hand, stepping over the clutter and mess to reach him. The man's brow furrows, upon smelling the scent that assails him the moment he steps through the doorway: the distinct smell of rose petals and peach effuses the air in the apartment, drifting and wafting, so strong it makes him shudder. It's such a familiar smell.

Familiar, in the best and worst ways. In the elating and sickening ways.

"Welcome home, Dr. Gearloose" Boyd pipes up, and he's beaming, "I made some tea. It's your favorite"

He reaches upward, on tippy toes, to hand his creator the mug. Dr. Gearloose reaches down, and carefully extricates the offered cup from his grip.

His hands are shaky, as they wrap around the base and handle, grip so tight his knuckles turn white. Tears prick the corner of his eyes. Boyd notices, how his hand shakes, how his lip trembles with the faintest of smiles.

"Thank you" He murmurs, as he raises the cup to his lips. He takes a sip… and finds it tastes just as delicious, sickly sweet and velvety, as it had all those years ago. It reminds him, of staying in the lab much too late, sneaking the rose flavored tea bags in so he and Boyd could share.

It reminds him of everything and nothing.

" _Where'd_ you find this?"

He'd spent years looking, after he fled Tokyolk.

"There was some left at the old lab" Boyd's still smiling, proud, "I brought it back with me"

"I missed **it** ," He says, soft and considering. **It** , encompasses everything and nothing, just like the tea that used to be his favorite, that he hasn't had in more than 10 years.

He takes another sip, savoring it. Then, he looks down at the coffee mug, and his heart skips a beat.

 _Number 1. Dad_ , is splayed across in huge, red letters. It takes Gyro a moment to realize it's hand painted.

His smile grows.

* * *

Boyd was a definitely real boy of many skills. Cooking was a more recent one, added to his repertoire. A must have for Doofus Drake's little brother… though Drake was clear Boyd was anything but, and Boyd was, technically, much older than the portly young duckling.

Of course, Boyd had never been one to be caught up in technicalities. He'd been too happy about having a brother, being part of a family.

He's still happy now too, with Gyro and Dr. Cabrera, and Lil Bulb (who kept him company when the other two were busy, and didn't ask him to damage property if he didn't want to, and was never averse to the occasional hug, even if he pretended not to like them. Lil Bulb liked hugs. Boyd loved hugs, too. Giving and receiving).

The thought makes him smile, grinning wide, while he mans the stove. Oil sizzles in the pan, the smell of sugary batter cooking assailing his scent sensors.

He's still grinning, when Dr. Gearloose stumbles into the kitchen, bleary eyed, glasses skewed and pajamas still on.

"What are you doing?" He squawks. Boyd stumbles on his step stool, before turning from the stove with a happy grin, spatula extended.

"Good morning Dr. Gearloose! I'm cooking breakfast for you!"

The older bird grumbles faintly, "That's backwards, Boyd. I'm supposed to cook for you, seeing as I'm your-" A grimace, sudden and pained and concerning, "seeing as I'm the adult, here"

"That's alright, Dr. Gearloose. I'm not that hungry" And that's true. He's not (he never really is, he just likes eating, anyway), "Perhaps tomorrow"

"Yes. I'm definitely cooking breakfast tomorrow"

Boyd nods quickly. Calls out brazenly, "Oh, they're almost done!"

Gyro walks to stand beside Boyd, and is surprised to see he's making Dorayaki. Almost perfectly, but not quite.

It's a non-traditional variation.

"Move aside, little man-" He gently takes the spatula, basically stealing it out of Boyd's grip, "and let the master show you how it should be done"

Boyd smiles, so wide, so happy. Gyro's smiling as well, laughing faintly beneath his breath.

He grunts, as he does his best to flip one of the little confections, instead splattering semi solid dough all over the inside of the pan. A few have stuck to the surface, and he's certain a couple are burnt, because he can pick up on that scent, charred, suspiciously close to charcoal.

"I haven't done this in quite a long time" He admits, once they get the first batch off the heat, and he's staring at a collection of misshapen, half burnt disks.

"Really?" Boyd exclaims, a dorayaki already in his hand, the taste of bean paste bursting on his taste receptors.

it was good, he thought, sweet and crisp.

"Hmm" Gyro pulls himself out of his distraction, forcing a wide grin, "Oh, yes. Not since I left… looks like I need to rehone my skills"

Boyd considers that. Stares at his caregiver, who is smiling… happy, hopefully, "Would you like to make some more?"

"I'd love to"

* * *

Gyro is afraid. He's _afraid_. And afraid for good reason.

Boyd won't stop staring at him, with this _look_ , like he's wonderful, and everything, and so good: like he's this man he hasn't been in more than a decade. The man who's kind and patient and trusts, who's open in the way he speaks and with his heart and in his affections.

Boyd looks at him, past the barriers, and he sees who Gyro used to be, not who he is now, and that frightens the scientist.

He doesn't want to disappoint the kid ~~(his kid),~~ but he knows that's the only possibility, given the circumstances.

"I can't be that, anymore. I can't be what you need"

He just hopes Boyd understands.

* * *

The boy sits perched on the scientist's desk, hand leant up on blueprints and loose pages. The faint light refracting through the water past large portholes casts his little face in shadow, beak and all, coloring the rest of him a pale bluish purple. He looks small in light of how much larger the desk is than he is, and how Gyro, even leant up against Fenton's desk, half slouched and defeated, towers over him where he sits.

"I don't understand. Why doesn't the clock work? Nothing's changed" He's not just talking about the clock, sitting precariously in one hand, it's hands frozen mid motion. He knows it, and Gyro knows it, and even Fenton, who's trying to keep busy halfway around the room (definitely not _eavesdropping_ because _what_ , he never did _that_ ), knows it.

"It's become rusted" Gyro responds, and he's definitely not talking about the clock, even though he takes it out of Boyd's hands and stares at it, as if it has answers. "It happens"

"Yes, but why should it be a problem"

"Because when things get rusty, they halt to function properly" He snaps, fingers digging into his elbow, "The gears become stiff, and it must be replaced"

"But something rusty _can_ be oiled" Boyd replies, a reminder, of something his caregiver has forgotten, so very hopeful, "Oiled and fixed"

Gyro looks away,

"Yes, perhaps"

He does not believe. Boyd can see it.

* * *

"You don't have to stay, Boyd" Gyro says quietly, staring blankly at the horizon, hands fisted against his knees, legs dangling off the Money Bin's balcony. The stars are out, twinkling, bright against stark black.

Boyd hasn't watched the stars in a long time. They're beautiful. Boyd tears his eyes away from them all the same, beak already falling open in protest.

 _Why would he want to leave, when he just got back to Dr. Gearloose?_ They had way too much missed time to make up for, too many missed sunsets and starry skies and bedtime stories between them.

Gyro seems to know what he's thinking. He shakes his head, and cuts right over him, tone curt, trying hard to be strong, but warbling all the same, "I know I'm not the way I used to be. The difference is appalling. I've changed, and I'm not good like I was and…"

His gaze turns to the stars. So does Boyd's, for the shortest of moments, and he's reminded of the first few weeks at the junkyard, before his vision had been obscured, and he could see the sky unobstructed. It'd been unbearably lonely, cut off from human contact, but the stars, those burning little balls of helium and hydrogen, had been a comfort.

"You're enough" Boyd says, loud and effusive, because it's _true_ , and he hopes it's enough to get his creator to understand, "You've always been enough. I don't care that you've changed or that you wear different glasses… you're _you_ , and that's what matters"

There's a faint gust of wind, rushing across the top of The Bin. Both birds shiver. Gyro curls up, and turns away, and Boyd can glimpse tears pricking at the corner of his eyes.

"Boyd, I'm… broken, okay? It's not as simple as you're making it out to be. I'm not - I can't -"

He gasps, completely caught off guard, when he feels Boyd throws his arms around his middle in a sudden hug. He nuzzles close, beak tucked into Gyro's side, his little fingers pressing into the creases of his vest.

"It doesn't matter! I love you..." He presses closer, mumbling into the inventor's shirt, "Dad"

Gyro freezes, staring at the boy in his arms, wide eyed and almost frightened.

"I… _what_?"


	3. Identification: Family?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenton mediates, listens, and makes the most of the scraps he's given. And tries to help as best as he can.

Everything was changing.

Fenton was a doctor now- maybe not technically but most certainly in spirit- and Gyro had a son (a son!) And suddenly there's this bright eyed little boy running around the lab, breathing so much life into every empty dark crevice once so dead.

Dr. Gearloose seemed so happy, following the android's arrival… and Fenton certainly was, having been pulled into the fold, finally.

It's a welcome change.

* * *

It's a couple weeks following their impromptu visit to Tokyolk.

"Sir-"

"Gyro" The chicken corrects him abruptly, before turning away, coughing faintly into his hand with a sidelong glance. "Gyro is fine"

Fenton's eyes widen with barely hidden surprise, but he smiles, rather appreciative of the gesture, "Oh, okay!"

Gyro waves him off, with a careless shrug, as if it didn't mean anything. As if this weren't the nicest thing he'd said to him in awhile.

As if this _weren't_ the start of a beautiful friendship (Fenton would argue it was).

"Yeah, well… I'm not your boss, anymore. We're coworkers, now. And as coworkers, we should use each other's names. Anything else is idiotic" He took his glasses off with a scoff, wiping them off with the hem of his shirt, as if he couldn't care less," And hearing, Dr. Gearloose, 37 times a day is certain to get sickening after awhile"

Fenton beams in response.

* * *

Something's wrong.

When Gyro comes bursting into the lab through the steel elevator doors, Fenton's in the process of rewiring his most recent prototype, a large, circular service drone whose primary function was reconstruction. The clamorous noise nearly has him jumping out of his skin, and he drops the pair of tweezers, turning toward the commotion with a gasp, hand pressed to his chest.

He has half a mind to mention how delicate what he's working on is, but pauses as soon as he sees how absolutely _harried_ Gyro is.

Fenton stops what he's doing immediately.

"He called me Dad, Fenton. Dad!" He yanks at his hair, eyes wide with panic, pacing back and forth across the lab, "What do I do?!"

He hadn't been expecting that. He'd been expecting to hear the Bin was being attacked, or an infestation of clones had erupted, or the world was ending, right now. He wasn't expecting this but… this should be more manageable, right? Since this wasn't life and death, and he couldn't say that about much.

He could handle this. He could bring an agitated Dr. Gearloose back to earth.

"I'm not sure, cariño. Just calm down, please" He presses his hand to his arm, squeezes reassuringly, and Gyro stops in his tracks.

"Breathe, okay" He urges, and Gyro nods his head limply. There's still a pinging, nervous energy just beneath his skin, but he's slowing down, calming down. His eyes flutter close, and he blows out a huffing exhale.

"Right. Breathe. I'm breathing"

* * *

It's cold. The lab was always cold at night- dark too. It's so dark in fact, Fenton can't even see a foot in front of him, as he gazes out into the murky obscurity of the lab.

Gyro's seated beside him, close enough they're almost touching shoulders. The other is tense, gaze pointed to the ceiling.

"I'm not sure I get it" Fenton says, hands on his knees, eyes squinted tight in confusion, "Haven't you always been his dad? I mean, you literally made him"

Gyro refuses to look at him, "I suppose you have a point"

"So what's the problem?"

When Fenton turns to look at him, his face is edged in deep shadow, an awful grimace etched into his beak.

"It's just too much. It feels too soon" He exclaims, throwing his hands outward, "I mean, we've never really said the words, before. It was always just _implied_ "

"But why are you so scared?"

Fenton can identify the feeling, after nearly a year working with and alongside Gyro. His fear showed differently than others, was often tainted with irritation, anger, meant to hide such vulnerability, but Fenton has learned to tell the difference between true agitation and prickly, faux frustration meant to shroud.

He sees, sees his coworker is horrified.

"The pressure is on, I suppose. I mean… I'm really a father, which I never thought I'd be saying... and can I even do this?"

Fenton scoffs, "Of course you can! You're Gyro Gearloose, genius inventor, great friend and coworker, and only slightly socially awkward"

"Hardy har har, very funny" Gyro rolls his eyes.

"You did stick me in a bathroom stall"

"And I apologized profusely, once I was shown the error of my ways"

"And I greatly appreciated it, oh great one. Anyway, I digress. The point is, you've, you've got this. You've _already_ been doing it"

* * *

Fenton is a helper. It's simply what he does.

"Hello, Dr. Cabrera" Boyd calls, as he steps out of the elevator into the lab.

His answering smile is bright and warm. Fenton always enjoyed spending time with the little android, so sweet and bright and eager to learn (a lot like himself, he thinks, when he was young, chock-full of dreams of being an astronaut).

"Hey Boyd. What brings you around so early?"

"I thought I'd come see what you were working on" His head tilts, beak painted with a bright little smile, "Can I join you?"

Fenton's heart swells with affection.

"Of course. Come my friend, and gaze upon the greatest which is, walah!"

He snatches the sheet off of their newest prototype with a loud swish. Boyd tries to look surprised, enthused, as much as was warranted by such an impressive display, but ultimately fails.

Fenton drops the sheet, scrambling to figure out why the child looked so crestfallen. There's concern, as Boyd looks down at the floor.

"Boyd, Are you alright?"

"I think Dr. Gearloose has been avoiding me" It's abrupt and sudden. An observation, as opposed to a question.

Boyd always did cut straight to the point. In that way, he was a lot like his father, so logical, so analytical.

Fenton shuffles uncomfortably on his feet

"What? No. He would never do that" He chuckles awkwardly, "What makes you think that?"

"I've hardly seen him in the last couple days" Boyd frowns, "He hasn't come to breakfast. I'm certain he's been leaving before dawn, and doesn't come back until 1 or 2. When I'm at the lab he works as far away as possible, or finds an excuse to leave"

When he looks up, he's teary eyed and sniffling, "Have I done something wrong?"

Fenton is quick to reassure him, "No, Boyd. He… your father is sorting out some stuff of his own. These things can be difficult for him, so he might need some time to figure it out. Maybe, try to be patient?"

He nods slowly, considering, "Is there a way we can help?"

"I'm not really sure" He admits, and he wishes at the core of his very being that he could say otherwise. "But if there is, we'll find it"

He'll find a way. Fenton prided himself on being able to do that, being able to find a way.

"Come on big guy. Let's get some lunch. I am famished!"

"Oh yes, nourishment sounds exciting!"

* * *

It's rare for them to leave the lab, in the middle of the afternoon. Well, not rare for Fenton, since he often found himself gallivanting across the city at all manner of the day (and night), but rare for Gyro, certainly.

It'd been quite the task, dragging the chicken away from his desk for a late lunch, but Fenton persevered.

They end up huddled across from each other in a booth at a cozy mom and pop diner Fenton always used to go to when he was young. It's as warm as he remembers, with it's red tiled floors, and earnest faces, and faint music playing from the scuffed jukebox seated proudly in the corner.

It's just secluded enough to feel private.

"I never really saw myself being the father type" Gyro admits, over his banana milkshake.

The warm, orange undertones of the hanging lights seemed to breed honesty. Fenton easily admits, "I always have"

"What?"

Fenton laughs, "Sorry. I just… I've always _known_ I wanted to be a dad. Have kids, the whole shebang, you know"

Gyro's mouth twists into a dubious frown. "Not really"

"It's a great thing, you know" Fenton's smile is small and thoughtful, "I had such a wonderful dad, growing up, and I really want to be that for someone else. Someone they could look up to"

"I didn't" Gyro glares into his plate, refusing to look up, "...Have a great father. Honestly, I just… didn't want to perpetuate the cycle"

Fenton isn't quite certain what to say to that.

He gently places his hand over Gyro's, fisted around his fork, and hopes that's enough.

* * *

"Can I come with you on your patrol?"

Fenton pauses midstep (midroll? Since the suit has wheels instead of feet) to glance down at the little boy, staring expectantly back up at him. A knowing smile curls across his face, and he bends down so he's at eye level with him.

"Did you ask your dad first?" Fenton questions.

Boyd grimaces a tad bit, at that last part.

"No. But I thought maybe I could come anyway, if you said it was okay"

He knows this trick. He's familiar enough with it to have used it himself. He's not going to fall for it.

"I'm sorry, but that's not gonna happen, bud" He says.

The way Boyd deflates honestly breaks his heart, but he squares his shoulders, and pushes onward anyway. He's got to stay strong. Stay strong. Be firm. _Don't say yes to that sad little face, no matter how much you want to._

"I'm not taking you anywhere if Gyro hasn't agreed to it" And the steel in his voice is pretty convincing, he thinks, and totally not undermined by the concern that leaks out seconds later, "I mean, imagine if something happened to you?"

Boyd scowls.

"Nothing would happen" He taps his arm as if to prove his point, and is rewarded with a loud clunking sound, "I'm made of metal. And I have rockets. I'm very prepared"

"Notwithstanding, if something _does_ happen, you'll be hurt, and I'll be very very dead. Especially if I take you out on a joyride without permission"

"Please, Dr. Cabrera? I'll be good!" He sounds so desperate.

Something's wrong. Just like when Gyro came rushing into the lab just two days ago, wild eyed and panicked.

Fenton decides to humor him, just this once.

* * *

"He's still waiting on you" Fenton reminds him, voice booming in the dead silence of the lab.

Gyro grimaces. "I know"

"He thinks you're angry" He adds.

"I _know_ " Gyro replies, scowling.

Fenton looks away, staring down at the blueprint in his hands. His voice is almost a whisper when he speaks next, and he almost hopes Gyro can't hear him. "I'm here if you need me"

That was already a given, anyway.

Gyro nearly chokes. He quickly nods, turning away, and mutters quietly, "I… I know, I know that"

Fenton doesn't see Gyro again for the next couple hours.

* * *

The hangar is airily cool.

Coming to walk amongst the aircraft is mainly an excuse to get away from the lab for a bit, if he's being honest. He needs time to clear his head, time to figure out how he's going to help them, away from the suffocating, heavy awkwardness which had fallen over them over the last couple weeks.

"Hey, you down there! Toss me the wrench"

He gazes upward toward the noise, and finally notices the duck staring down at him from nearly 50 feet up…. just perched atop one of the planes. There's a tool box beside her, which she's staring into rather hotly, brows furrowed.

Right… the wrench. He looks down at the mess of tools at his feet. "Um, okay. Is that a 12 millimeter or a 14 or-?"

"15 mil. Should be sitting near the pliers"

He picks up the 15 millimeter wrench and tosses it to her. She snatches it out of the air with one hand and a triumphant shout.

"Thanks pal! You know, you look familiar…" She studies him from over the edge of the plane's wing, eyebrows creased together, hand held at her chin, as she pantomimes stroking a beard she didn't have. Fenton smiles awkwardly, under her intense gaze, as she hums and ahhs, and he wonders if this daring looking pilot lady was about to pummel him.

"Hmm. Hmmm…" She brightens with recognition, snapping her fingers, "oh yeah, you're Fenton, aren't you?"

He blinks, "Yes I am. How'd you recognize me"

"Oh, I've seen you on the news, like, a dozen times, Gizmoduck"

Oh Goodness. Was he that obvious?

"I'm Della" She smiles charmingly. Fenton tries not to look too nauseous, "Nice to finally, officially, meet you"

She's scurrying down the side of the plane in the blink of an eye, landing with a thud and a flourish, bright eyed and bushy tailed, bouncing on the balls of her feet with a torrent of hardly contained energy.

Fenton notices a number of things about the duck suddenly standing before him, all at once.

Number 1: She's wearing an aviator cap, pulled half askew over her brow, so she's probably a pilot.

Number 2: Her leg had also been severed, somehow, (probably chopped off or worse) and was now missing, replaced by a metal prostetic clearly thrown together using scraps, clunky steel bolts and fumbling fingers. Ingenuitive but rushed.

He tears his gaze away, toward her face, and is immediately struck by her striking resemblance to one Donald Duck.

She steps forward, spits in her palm, and throws her hand out for him to shake. Fenton stares at her hand, the one covered in saliva, and tries to come up with a polite excuse for why he can't shake it.

Her grin turns sheepish. She lowers her hand, laughing all the while.

"Oh, right. I forgot people don't do that anymore. Sorry. Silly me. It's just been awhile since I had to introduce myself, you know, with the _Moon_ and everything"

* * *

"Oh, that jerkwad" Della snaps, when Fenton mentions his current predicament.

His eyes widen. "You know him?"

"Of course I do. I mean licorice? Really? Licorice Flavored Oxy Chew. Nothing but licorice flavored everything for a freaking decade?" She shakes her head, grumbling, looking so agitated, "That evil, no good, conniving, know it all… When I see him next I'm gonna kill him!"

"Wow. You're really mad at him" Fenton laughs awkwardly.

"What, no. This is the usual animosity between friends. I just need him to know I'm kicking his tail feathers as soon as I see him next, 'kay?"

* * *

"I met you're friend Della, today. She apparently wants you to know she's going to beat you up"

His eyes widen, before smoothing out, apathetic as ever.

"Oh what? She's gonna string me up like a punching bag?" He rolls his eyes with a click of his tongue, "That sounds like Della, alright. That pain in my a- She crashed my first electric car prototype, you know. I spent weeks rebuilding it"

Fenton laughs, mostly at the miffed expression on the other's face. Gyro pauses, wrench clutched in his hand, looking so very surprised by the sudden outburst, before he's laughing as well.

His expression softens. "Perhaps I should go see her. It's been a long time"

"Really? How long?"

"Ten years"

* * *

They sit together around the kitchen table, soft lamp light edging their faces in warm, orangey tones. Forks scrape across plates, as they dig into tostones rich with savoury plantains.

It's rare for Fenton and his mother to come together for a formal dinner, what, with her police work and his long hours deep in the lab - which she most certainly commented on, but thankfully left alone after she let her opinion be known.

They have a lot to catch up on.

Fenton nods, as his mother recounts a particularly stirring tale about an amateur bank robber who forgot a getaway car, and decided to run to the nearest bus stop.

She pauses, when she sees the distracted look on Fenton's face.

"What is it?" She asks him, gesturing toward his beak with fork in hand.

He huffs. "It's Dr. Gearloose"

Fenton's mother nods, sagely,

"If you need me to, I will bash his beak in" She crosses her arms with a harsh little laugh, surely thinking back to all the times Gearloose had done something distasteful. "Don't think I won't"

Fenton quickly shakes his head, and he presses a shaking hand through his hair. "I know, M'ma, but it's nothing like that. I'm just worried. He- he has a little boy now, Boyd, and everything's changing so much"

"I don't know what you see in that arrogant-"

"Mma!" Fenton exclaims.

"Sorry. Carry on"

"They're just struggling, and I'm not sure how to help. What should I do?"

He waits patiently, for her to drop some wisdom upon him.

"Do they care about each other?"

"Well, yes"

She nods, and continues to eat her dinner, "Then they'll resolve it themselves, mijo. You have nothing to worry about"

She sighs, when she sees the hagrid look on his face. "Look, you can't fix it for them. They have to do that"

She reaches up, pats him on the cheek, and smiles warmly.

Fenton sighs. He knows, of course.

That's part of the problem.

* * *

He's running late. The short supply run he'd thought would only take a couple hours ended up extending far into the evening, so by the time he arrives back at The Bin, the sun's already setting behind him. He heaves the bags out of the car, shuts the door with his foot, and scurries on over.

He's only about half a block away, when he catches sight of the figures in front of The Bin. Two figures. A couple second glances reveals that it's Boyd and Gyro. Out on the steps. Together.

As opposed to avoiding each other like the plague.

He puts the bags down beside him on the sidewalk, making no attempt to come any closer, in the hopes that he won't interrupt the moment.

Fenton watches them, sitting side by side on the steps. Talking.

Just talking. Finally talking.

Boyd throws his arms around Gyro. The scientist returns the gesture, pulling the boy into a tight embrace.

Fenton heaves a little sigh of relief.

* * *

They laugh over bowls of mochi ice cream and cake.

Fenton resolves to protect those smiles, in any way he can.

He promises to protect the little piece of happiness they've managed to secure, even if that means laying down his life.

That was the responsibility: of a protector, a hero, a family member, after all, and Fenton was all three.


	4. Bonus: Huey!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's an extra bit with Huey in it because I can't just leave him out. He's too precious!

Huey was rather happy about making a new friend.

He had quite a vast amount of experience tucked beneath his belt, as a Junior Woodchuck of more than 3 years, but making friends wasn't one of them.

Most of the other scouts look at him weird, whispering about the duckling behind his back.

Wanting to follow the rules to the letter makes him unusual, neurotic, robotic (disregarding the fact that he simply finds comfort in how structured it all is, and as scouts the guide book is supposed to be the gospel, anyway). Calculating outcomes makes him a machine.

If he mentions that something's a bad idea, he's a stickler.

He smiles, at the boy seated beside him, as firelight dances across their faces.

His name is Boyd, and Huey finds he's one of the few people who understands him.

And now he's Huey's friend.

* * *

Huey's brothers do not understand him. They try, but they fall short, sometimes at the most important of times.

They drop out of the Junior Woodchucks within a week of joining- well, Louie actually lasts a few days less, Dewey a couple days more, but by the time the fourth meeting rolls around, Huey is attending alone.

They ask why Huey keeps going. Dewey falls over himself, grousing about how boring it was, and Louie rolls his eyes. They don't really get that Huey feels like he belongs somewhere, for the first time ever, that the fact that everything is so carefully structured is a relief, as opposed to suffocating.

He hugs the thick, leatherbound guidebook to his chest, and finds comfort in the way the rubber ridges dig into his skin, ever so faintly. He finds comfort in the crisp pages against his fingertips, the predictability of knowing exactly what he's looking at.

His Uncle Donald leans forward, ruffling his head feathers with an encouraging smile, and tells his brothers to lay off.

Uncle Donald doesn't quite understand either.

It doesn't really matter, of course. They may not understand, not completely, but they try.

They care.

They love him.

* * *

The first time someone calls him robot, it stings. It stings a lot.

He doesn't cry, but his eyes get wet, and he wants to. He wants to cry. Instead his hands clenched into fists, and he snaps.

Uncle Donald picks him up from the meet early. Huey sits in the back seat and refuses to talk, staring out the window in moody silence.

"Don't listen to those jerks," Dewey says, rather fiercely, once they get home.

"They don't know what their talking about"

Louie nods. His phone is still grasped half loose in his grip, and he's staring at the screen, belaboringly determined to prove how unfazed he is.

But then he looks up, and it's obvious he's listening. He's invested.

"Yeah, if those guys can't see how great you are, who needs them?"

Huey smiles weakly.

"Thanks, guys" He hugs his knees to his chest, "That means a lot"

And it does. But something doesn't sit quite right, because while he knows his brothers will always stand by his side, they don't _understand_ him.

They've called him robot, too, after all: always in a half joking, teasing way, never meant to be spiteful or hurtful, because family never _means_ to hurt you, even if they do.

Hurt you, that is.

* * *

People call Boyd robot, too. He doesn't get angry, though.

"I know it's not true" He says quietly, as they set up their tents, "I know I'm a real boy, so it doesn't really bother me when they say I'm not"

"It doesn't upset you even a little bit?" Huey asks, carefully bringing his mallet down on the stake, arm moving at a perfect 90⁰ angle.

"Maybe, a little" Boyd grimaces, "Name calling isn't very nice"

"No, it's not" Huey smiles, anyway.

He decides not to listen to them.

They didn't know what they were talking about, anyway.

* * *

When Huey sees the lasers, he can't say he's entirely surprised. On the one hand, yeah, seeing lasers crashing through the tree line and across the forest floor and nearly through his forehead is always a shock.

On the other hand, it's not shocking that Boyd's actually, truly, an android.

There'd been signs, Huey supposed, signs he hadn't particularly wanted to see.

Boyd was just so much like him, like Huey, and if Boyd, that so very normal, real boy…. was a robot, did that make Huey a robot too? Did that make the taunts he'd been hearing all his life, founded?

Dr. Gearloose stares at Boyd like he's some _thing_ , less a human being and more a monster. Huey's stomach twists into knots, and he feels sick.

"That thing is no boy" Dr. Gearloose spat, growling, and Huey is certain he has no idea how much that hurts, "That thing is a menace"

Boyd is teary eyed, gaze tight with hurt. Huey places a hand to his arm, and offers an encouraging little smile.

"He doesn't mean that," Huey says, as calmly as he can. The reassurance falls a bit flat.

Boyd nods, but he's sniffling.

He may be a robot, but he was a robot with feelings.

* * *

Cherry blossoms drift through the air, falling atop their heads in a gentle rain of pink. Huey watches them, from where he stands leant up against the metal railing.

Boyd is absolutely beaming beside him.

"Are you okay? I know it's been a lot and-"

"This is the best day of my life!" Boyd exclaims, arms flapping at his sides, and his eyes sparkle.

"Thanks Huey… for being here" He pauses, contemplating. "Want to get some ice cream?"

"Yeah. Ice cream sounds nice"

They both get cones, his chocolate and Boyd's strawberry, and eat them as they walk down the boardwalk, amongst the cherry blossoms. Boyd's humming to himself, laughing every once and a while when Huey tells a good joke.

Huey wonders if it matters that Boyd is a robot. Huey wonders _why_ it matters, that Boyd is a robot.

He's as human as anyone else he's ever met: regardless of the gears cranking in his chest, the power source he has instead of a heart.

So many people had different inner workings, yet no one questioned their personhood. How was Boyd any different?

How was he any different?

* * *

Robot or not, Boyd was still Huey's best friend.

Boyd was a robot, and that didn't make him any less of a person.

Huey isn't any less of a person.


End file.
